YOUR CART

Windshadow

Today I was invited to crew for my bosses father in law in a sailing regatta in honour of two fire fighters who died in the World Trade Center last year. It feels weird to be around these smiling men, these men who are defined by so many deaths, and it makes me feel a little strange, but how can you not do it? If they can, and they do, then anyone should if given the chance.He’s an old man, my bosses father in law, with his old man’s stoop and scrappy white beard and shorts half way up his stomach, and despite his arthritis in one hand he can’t, and won’t, stop sailing. The day was hot and balmy, with a milky haze covering the horizon. As we sailed out of the marina across the Hudson we were headed for the brick buildings of Battery Park and downtown, the buildings looking as though they had reshuffled themselves to cover their shame, as if to say what are you looking at? There’s nothing to see here, there’s nothing you’re missing here, like soldiers protecting a fallen friend while he gets first aid for his wounds. And no matter how often you looked, they were showing you nothing.The start line was in front of the World Financial Center, in the windshadow formed by the downtown area. All the yachts were dipping and cresting, jockeying for position like riders on young, flighty horses waiting to be given their head. And when they were released, and passed the tip of the island, they were. At the end of the island the Hudson meets the East River meets the incoming tide, and between Governor Island and Liberty the ride begins.She watched over us all – Liberty, tall and unshakable, holding her torch high to shine the way for all, has seen everything before, so nothing surprises her much.Engine powered boats have to give way to sail powered boats – it’s the law of the sea. They don’t like that much, and they don’t slow down as they pass you, contemptuous that they have to give way to something they see as insignificant, and the wake only adds to the swell that wants to throw you out anyway. The old man doesn’t care – he’s lived a long time, done a lot of things, and he’s doing the one thing he lives for – if he died sailing, he’d die content. The wind had picked up too, and he was determined to win, to show them all the life that still pulsed through him, fainter now but still there. When we tacked to starboard I had to sit on the port side, and I looked immediately downwards to see the sea rushing by under me, waiting to see if we could keep her on her edge. The old man stood on the starboard seat – if he were in that position in port he’d be lying down, but his weight was all on his feet – and he may have been smiling. I may have been too.Winches, rope and sweat – that’s what sailing is about. And when one of the winches breaks, you sweat more.You can’t smell the sea when you are sailing against the wind, and we fought against it all the way to the buoy under the Verezanno Bridge, with boats powering all around us, helicopters thudding overhead and the sea thrashing from below. It wasn’t until we rounded the buoy and had the wind to our backs that we could smell the sea, like a sneaky fart no one wants to admit to. Sailing with the wind seems to be the easy part, but it’s also the most dangerous – when you are jibing the boom will suddenly snap across the deck like it wants to kill you, and if you aren’t watching it easily can.That’s when you can hear the noises of sailing, too – the whup whup of the sheet, tied down and pulling, writhing and spitting like a tethered stallion, wanting to run with the wind. And the constant dak dak dak dak of the rigging and mast, reminding you that everything on board is under pressure at all times, and looking for an excuse to explode if you let it. And my favourite noise, the bells of the buoys around the channel, chiming like cathedral bells tolling in the distance for someone you’ll never know.Sailing towards Manhattan is the best way to enter the city, the only way to see it for what it is before you are inside it and surrounded on all sides by the noise and glare and smell. From the water Manhattan looks pure, like the great collection of towers and hope that it sometimes can be. From south of the island you can see the newer buildings squashed over to the east, herded there by the older brick towers and looking like they wish they could be with their cousins in Jersey City, where there is space for them to stand up straight and true without being hemmed in on all sides. Or maybe they’d rather be over in Brooklyn, where they could tower over the BQE and watch the cars slide past, shining like diamonds, shimmering in the heat haze.And eventually we were back in the Hudson and sailing past the committee boat and hearing the horn that let us know we are finished, with only the chores to do – pull in the sails, roll up the ropes, and cover them all with the tarpaulins cut to size. I looked at my hands then and they were bright red, from the ropes and the sun, and I knew that I’ll have a few more freckles soon, even though I covered myself as well as I could.We went for a beer afterwards, and all those firefighters were smiling and laughing and giving us food, and I smiled back, hoping that there were some happy guys looking down and laughing with us. (August 2002)